


Ripened

by MinP1072



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, on-the-run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinP1072/pseuds/MinP1072
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here, now, he has carved out an advantage. Magicked them out of sight, the way he had done for so many criminals… Life on the run is an exhausting challenge. Red manages to make out a little space to rest, hidden away and safe, just the two of them... Just a smutty little one-shot that's totally PWP, so enjoy it for what it is.</p>
<p>(<i>Originally a birthday gift for the always-delightful FilmsAreFriends, published on ff.net November 7, 2015</i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ripened

It’s quiet, the dusky hues of late afternoon bathing the small apartment in cool colour. She wanders out of the bedroom, padding almost silently on bare feet, feeling well-rested for the first time in… how long has it been, anyway, she wonders, that they have been living this scrabbling existence? Three weeks? Four? So often barely a single step ahead of the FBI, her former partner’s breath practically tangible on the back of her neck.

But here, now, he has carved out an advantage. Magicked them out of sight, the way he had done for so many criminals; just for long enough to rest, he assured her. Just a space for a few solid meals, a hot shower, a good sleep. She owes him so much at this point it’s ridiculous to keep track, but for this, this quiet weekend, she’d have given him anything he asked. He’d just laughed at her fondly, and told her to take a nap. 

_Where_ is _he, anyway?_ She walks through the living area to the cozy kitchen; there’s no sign of him. A splash of red-on-white catches her eye before the panic has a chance to take hold — a note on the fridge door. She wonders absently if somewhere in the city, maybe in many cities, he has a room or a storage unit, packed with burner phones and notepads and red pens.

_Lizzie,_ his bold hand declares, _I’ve stepped out for a few necessities. If you wake before I return, go ahead and shower. There are clean clothes for you in the bedroom closet. R._

She shakes her head briefly; she doesn’t really want to think about how he always just happened to have fresh clothes for them both wherever they find themselves, right down to the skin. She doesn’t want to think about how he manages to gauge her bra size, the style of panties she prefers, the fabrics she finds most comfortable, with such ease and accuracy.

She’d rather just shower, and wash the last few days (weeks) off her skin, and out of her mind.

* * *

When he comes back, she’s clean (and God, it’s marvellous), rested, and curled up on the sofa, reading. Everywhere they’ve been together, she’s found books, from classics to potboilers to poetry — Red seems to prefer to surround himself with words.

She’s immersed enough in the worn pages that she doesn’t hear the click of the lock or the open-and-shut of the door. A full bag in each arm, he takes a moment just to look at her, the newly blonde hair still a surprise, curling damply over her shoulders, her face intent and thoughtful. It’s a lovely picture, he thinks, one that would be all too easy to get used to.

To stop his thoughts as much as anything, he clears his throat ostentatiously; rustles his paper bags.

“Lizzie,” he calls cheerfully. “Snap out of it. I could have been anyone.”

She starts guiltily; drops the book on the coffee table and unwinds herself from the sofa.

“Not really,” she replies defensively. “You’ve got the only key."

“And you never knew anyone to pick a lock?” he asks, with that particular tilt of his head.

She snorts a little laugh before she can stop herself, then walks over to take one of the shopping bags. “I’ll help you put the groceries away,” she says, walking ahead of him into the kitchen.

He follows her, carefully not watching her walk, smiling at her neat avoidance of further confrontation. Since they’ve been together, she’s been trying particularly hard to stay friendly and open, to quell her argumentative side, and work with him as much as possible. He can only hope it becomes a habit that lasts.

She’s rifling through the bag for perishables when he catches up to her and puts his own bag down on the small table. He starts to unpack it as she stacks food in the fridge; he wonders if she knows that she’s humming softly. This cozy domesticity touches him, softens him. He’s smiling absently at a bunch of bananas when her voice intrudes.

“Red,” and she sounds a little odd. “Is that entire bag nothing but fruit?”

She’s finished with the first sack of groceries and has moved over to peer into his. He rubs at the back of his head, and then grins at her.

“I’m making it my personal mission to round out your diet,” he says teasingly. “Honestly, with your steady take-out-only intake, it’s amazing you haven’t contracted scurvy.”

She takes a breath, ready to rebut, then looks at the laughter in his face, his shining eyes, and giggles instead. “Scurvy,” she manages, “I know you love the sea, Red, but what century do you think this is?”

“It’s never a bad time to look out for your health, Lizzie,” he says solemnly (but with a smile still in his eyes). “Are you hungry now?”

She shrugs; looks at the clock. Not quite dinnertime, but they’ve both missed lunch. “I could eat, I guess.”

He digs around a bit in the tall paper bag, grumbling, and then straightens up with a perfect red-and-green oval in his hand — a mango. It must be perfectly ripe; it smells amazing, and her mouth waters a bit. He grins at her again, and turns to the counter for a sharp knife.

“Go, sit,” he urges. “Relax. I’ll bring it out in a minute.”

* * *

She wonders, as she walks away, how he managed so well on his own during his long exile — his compulsive need to tend to others is such a large part of him, it seems as if he might be lonelier than some on his own. She curls back into the sofa with a sigh. She welcomed this break of theirs with enthusiasm, but the sudden stop has proven a bit of a jolt. She finds herself waiting for the next crisis, for Red’s voice telling her to move, to act, to run.

_How pathetic_ , she thinks ruefully, _to be unable to take even a day to breathe_.

He sweeps into the room then, the way he does, always owning the space around him. He’s carrying a wide soup bowl heaped with neat slices of mango that he places on the coffee table before sitting beside her. He’d taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves working in the kitchen, and she’s momentarily distracted by his bare forearms.

“Dig in,” he offers cheerfully, bringing her back to her senses. “I had a bite in the kitchen, and it’s just divine.”

She smiles in response, easier already in his comforting presence. He carries an aura that has become like a warm blanket; always sure, in control, always ready with whatever she needs. She seems to have stopped worrying about all the things she doesn’t know, about his secrets and crimes; the wrongs he has done her no longer seem to matter. If he seeks to balance the scales, he is doing a good job.

She leans over to take a piece of fruit, sighing as the flavour bursts in her mouth like sunlight.

“Where did you _get_ this?” she asks, amazed. “It tastes like it just came off the tree.”

“Oh, I know a wonderful little market just around the corner, Lizzie. Looks like a hole-in-the-wall, but it's got the best suppliers on the entire Eastern Seaboard, I assure you.”

She has to smile, she can’t help it. He’s always so… so… _Red_.

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, savouring the succulent fruit, just enjoying each other’s presence. This ability to sit in comfortable quiet is one Liz didn’t know she possessed — she’s certainly never had this easy rapport with any other man, any other _person_ , really. The weeks of tension are seeping out of her, draining away like water, and it feels sublime.

He watches her, keeping her hovering on the periphery of his vision so she doesn’t notice. He can _see_ the tension leaving her, the change in her face and posture is tangible. He takes comfort in the fact that he is now the one that brings her ease instead of stress, that he has become a place to rest.

He watches her, absorbing the lines of her body, the grace of her slim-fingered hands. The cornsilk of her hair makes her porcelain skin even paler — coupled with the fatigue of their weeks on the run, on the verge, it seems almost translucent. He thinks that if he were to touch her, his fingers would sink right through her skin to the pulsing beat of her body beneath.

He watches her, taking a bite out of a larger piece of fruit; watches, as the syrupy juice runs down her fingers to her wrist, golden in the fading light. Without really thinking about it, struck by the picture-perfect beauty of the moment, he reaches out like a man in a dream, to take her slender wrist in his large, warm hand, to touch his tongue to her soft, cool skin and lick it clean. The sunny-sweet taste of the mango couples with the faintly lemon taste that is her and jolts through his system like a bolt of lightning, returning him to awareness in a startling instant.

He pulls back, lifting his head, ready to apologize, to cover, to do something, anything at all, but… but her face isn’t angry. Her expression is indecipherable, something between puzzlement and surprise and pleasure. He pauses, still washed in wonder at the taste of her in his mouth, his body warm through and shaken.

She can’t quite think. Her every nerve is back on high alert, but it’s not quite the same. It’s not the panic of the chase, the run. It’s the electricity of awareness, of touch, of arousal. She’s trembling like a leaf but when she looks at her hand, it’s not moving at all. It’s all on the inside, she’s thrumming like a tuning fork, and the only coherent thought she can formulate is that she wants more.

“You… missed a bit,” she says hesitantly, raising her sticky hand between them, holding her breath.

He can’t move. He blinks, looks into her eyes, deep and blue and bright with hopeful, nervous, edgy desire. He’s still holding her wrist, her pulse beating fast under his hand. _I should say something_ , he thinks dazedly, but what that something should be escapes him completely. Her eyes start to dim, her expression faltering; he’s waiting too long, has to move, has to act.

He bends his head to her once more; sweeps his tongue lightly up the inside of her wrist, the palm of her hand, to the tip of her index finger. He lifts his eyes to meet hers, watches them blur as he draws her finger into his mouth, drunk on the heady sweetness of mangoes and Lizzie.

* * *

Sensations are flooding through her like a tidal wave. His tongue so delicate against her skin that she’s shivering inside and out; his mouth is hot and wet around her; his eyes burn greenly into hers. _This is Reddington_ , she thinks dizzily, _it’s not right, I can’t…_ She loses her train of thought for a moment as he drags his lips off her finger and takes the next deep into his mouth.

_This is_ Red _,_ she thinks, collecting her wits. _Red, who cares for me; Red, who looks out for me; handsome, polished, suave, cosmopolitan Red, who seems to want me_. Her desire is an expanding coil of heat inside her; she yearns for touch, for more of him. Shaking, she brings her other hand up to his cheek; his skin is surprisingly soft under her questing fingers.

He lets her finger slide out of his mouth, putting his mind to memorizing her taste, storing it away where he can keep it forever. He leans his face into her hand a little, savouring the gentle touch. Everything he has kept locked down, denied, refused — all of it rushing to the surface until he can barely see through the fog of need.

“Lizzie, sweetheart,” he says to her, trying to keep hold of himself. “I don’t… I’m not…”

“Red,” she interrupts, afraid of what she will hear, her longing growing fiercer by the second. “It’s okay. It is. Just…”

She’s out of words. _Act,_ she thinks, _just do something._ She kisses him, all her confusion and wants and needs and losses coming together in a furious rush. His lips are soft and warm; they give a little under the pressure of hers. He’s so still that for one heart-stopping moment, she thinks she might have made a horrible mistake.

She’s kissing him and sparks are firing in his mind and body and he can’t quite believe it’s happening. Like her wrist and hand and fingers, her mouth tastes sweet and fruity, her lips are soft and wet. Her hand lies against his cheek, her fingers moving a little as if she is looking for something to hold on to. _This_ is _happening_ , he thinks, _don’t screw it up._ And he shifts to take her precious face in his hands and he pours himself into her.

Everything’s going fuzzy in her mind; soon there will be nothing left but feeling and sensation and lust. She whimpers a little as her mouth opens to his questing tongue; her hand slides from his face to wrap around his neck, the other fisting in his shirt. Everything in her wants him closer, wants more. He wants it, too; one hand thrusting into her hair to direct the angle of their kiss, the other stroking down her back to wrap around her waist and tug her into his body.

The hand wrapped around her waist slips under her sweater to stroke at her skin; it’s soft and smooth and it gives ever so slightly under his fingers. She wonders if she’s dreaming, then decides that she doesn’t care. His hand dances along her spine, traces the curve of her ribcage, comes back to cup her breast gently, then less so. She can _feel_ her nipple harden under his rubbing thumb; she whimpers again, straining to come closer, throwing a leg over his hip.

He groans softly into her mouth, his hands and arms tightening around her. “Lizzie,” he rasps, “Lizzie, not here. Up, sweetheart, come to bed. Please…”

Breathing fast, faster, she climbs the rest of the way into his lap and wraps her legs around him. “Yes, Red,” she murmurs back, kissing him again and again. “Yes, please.”

He draws a deep, shuddering breath, shifts his arms to wrap around her waist, her hips, brings his hands together underneath her to lift her with him as he stands. He moves, walking (staggering) across the room to the bedroom. Coming to a stumbling halt by the side of the bed, he pulls his head back just enough to speak.

“Put your legs down a minute?” he asks, heart racing, breath short.

She’s lost in him, them; it feels like drowning. But she hears him, somehow; unlocks her feet and stands, shakily, clutching at his shoulders for support. He strokes a hand over her head, bereft for once, of words. He moves his hands back to her waist; pulls her sweater off and tosses it behind him. He traces kisses along her collarbone, light as feathers, fingers curling at her waist. Sensation thrills everywhere insider her, heat ripping through her, her core pulsing in response to his touch.

“Red,” she moans, seething now with want. “I can’t…”

“Shh,” he murmurs against her lips. “Shh, sweetheart, let me…”

He flicks open her bra, slides it down her arms, tosses it, too. His hands roam down her body to the waist of her soft pants; he peels them down her legs, following them down to kneel at her feet, helping her step out and stand again, naked but for silky panties. He looks up at her, his hands on her legs, fascinated, overwhelmed.

“Oh, Lizzie,” he breathes out, brimming with desire. “So beautiful.”

She flushes, and he’s pleased to see it isn’t just in her face, but spreads down her neck and across her chest. _It’s entrancing_ , he thinks, but he can’t follow it now. Instead, he nudges against her with his shoulders toward the edge of the bed. “Sit, Lizzie,” he says softly. Her skin is crawling with need, but she turns, sits, watches. He pulls her panties off in one smooth motion, then runs his hands back up her legs to her knees, lifts them over his shoulders and puts his mouth on her.

She inhales on a gasp; reaches down to grasp his head and scratch her fingers through the stubbly prickle of his shorn hair. Her eyes flutter closed, the movements of his tongue sending ripples of pleasure through her. Pressure starts to build and she falls back onto the bed, moving against him with little thrusts of her hips that she is helpless to prevent.

He’s suckling at her now, pulling her clit between his lips and scraping against it with his teeth, just a little, just enough, and she cries out. He’s got one hand wrapped around a breast, stroking her soft skin, then rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefingers. She moans thickly, clutching at him, rolling her hips. He pinches her nipple exactly as he slides the same two fingers of his other hand inside her, thrusting deep.

Her cries intensify to a long moan, and he can feel her pulse against his lips and tongue, feel her clench around his fingers as her orgasm coats his fingers. It’s glorious.

She’s literally seeing stars, little bursts of white light against the black of her eyelids, as she comes apart over him, around him. It’s a sweet agony that she’s not certain she can bear. His hands are everywhere now, stroking along her body, soothing her down, holding her through the storm. He’s peppering kisses down the insides of her legs, lifting them over and onto the bed. She shifts, trying to help, repositioning herself.

He stands, finally, looking down at her stretched on the bed, still quaking with the aftershocks of her climax. He strokes her face gently, nearly overcome with the intensity of his want. Her eyes blink open and she smiles dreamily up at him, her eyes still fogged with pleasure.

“Red,” she breathes, “Red, come to me.”

He strips off his vest, tie; unbuttons his shirt and throws the lot of it behind him. He kicks off his shoes and unbuckles his pants, sliding both them and his boxers down and off, taking his socks on the way and kicking the whole mess to the side as if he’d never cared about his thousand-dollar suit less in his life.

She watches through slitted eyes, immeasurably aroused watching him undress, the strong lines of his body still outlined under the softer flesh. He lowers himself onto her, sliding between her legs and pressing as much of his body as he can up against hers, thrilling at the feel of flesh against flesh. He kisses her mouth, sweetly, sweetly, then with more and more passion. She slips her tongue over his lips to twine with his, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing her damp core against the hard length of him.

They’re both panting now; he’s covered in a light sheen of sweat, and she’s rosy pink all over. She hooks her legs around his so that he’s held in the cradle of her body, and he moves to position himself at her opening.

“Lizzie,” he gasps, “Yes?"

“Mmm,” she replies, rubbing against him like a cat. “Yes, Red, now, please…”

That last moaning gasp undoes him; he fits the tip of himself to her and thrusts inside her in a single smooth movement. She cries out again, her back arching, her head thrown back. He holds himself still, shaking with the effort, waiting to allow her to adjust to the size and shape of him. When she tightens her legs again and starts to roll her hips a little, he lets go and starts to move.

They move together easily, finding a rhythm quickly, holding on to each other. He thrusts into her, her wet warmth delectable around him. She’s moaning again, she can’t help it; it’s not like her to be vocal, but he just feels so good against her, inside her, his lips and tongue still moving desperately with hers. It’s building again, within her, in him; she cries out her pleasure, gripping him like a fist. The renewed wetness, her throbbing walls, her soft cries as she digs her fingers into his back all combine to tip him over the edge in long hot pulses.

He collapses, remembering dimly to shift his weight to the side rather than on top of her; he pulls her into his side and concentrates on breathing, resting his face against her silken hair. She wraps an arm around his middle, kisses his chest, licks gently at the pulse point in his neck. Their legs are tangled together, slippery with sweat and fluids, and he’s still half inside her.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been quite this content.

* * *

Later, much later, after they’ve slept and loved and showered and loved again, they’re back on the sofa, eating cheese and bread and drinking wine he insists is perfect for the occasion. He’s telling her stories to make her laugh, and they are at ease together in a way that’s new and familiar at the same time.

As he stops talking to take a sip of wine, she takes the opportunity to get a word in.

“Red,” she says softly. “What will happen now? Is this… Are we…”

He smiles at her, understanding, not quite certain himself. “We keep going,” he answers simply. “We’ve got a plan, and we _will_ exonerate you. We’ll just… keep a little closer than we have been.”

She smiles wryly back at him. “So this, between us…”

“I’m not giving you up now,” he replies firmly. “We’ll make it work, be careful.”

“Okay,” she says, relieved. “Okay. We’ll keep going, together.

“Want another mango?”


End file.
